


Inside Joke

by mabrii



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Memes, Pop Culture, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabrii/pseuds/mabrii
Summary: A little bit of everyday harmony.





	Inside Joke

T’Challa can't help the wistful smile on his face when he sees Erik's combat boots comfortably stored next to his sandals. He stands in front of the shelves, drugged on his affection. He feels the beginnings of laughter bubble in his chest as he remembers Erik's distaste for them. 

They weren't officially sharing the king’s quarters yet but they definitely shared his bed. Erik still had his apartment but neither of them knew when last he slept there, instead opting for the gradual migration of his things into T’Challa’s space, into their space. When he faced the wall of shelves that held T’Challa’s footwear; surprisingly spare for a king, but unsurprisingly so for this particular king, he'd scoffed at the 4 pairs of some kind of loafer in browns and blacks, the 3 pairs of something surely designed by Shuri, the 6 pairs of Oxfords (which suit T’Challa and were actually quite nice) and 4 too many pairs of those sandals he found supremely ugly. 

He had watched Erik standing there, combat boots in one hand and an immaculate pair of white Air Force Ones in the other, charcoal towel slung low on his kiss bruised hips, muttering something about "...the fuck them dusty ass shits on the shelf for...?" 

 

"Uhh...lemme show you somethin..." He says, leaving the walk-in and pulling video up on his  kimoyo beads. T’Challa’s face twitches, smirking as he stills oiling his skin with the thick, earthy blend that Erik loves. He's going for casual but T’Challa knows that face, the mischievous light in those eyes, the way the corners of his mouth quiver with the effort to not smile. He isn't sure what's coming, a common facet of life with Erik, but he's already amused.

The video starts with a man shouting in the street; 

His hair...wack!  
His gear...wack!  
His jewelry...wack!  
His foot-stance...wack!  
His walk...wack!  
The way that he doesn't even like to smile...wack!  
Me?...

Erik gestures to himself at this point; smug, disarming and absolutely infuriating, mouthing in time with the video, 

"I'm tight as fuck!" 

 

Erik chooses that moment; T’Challa’s face split wide by a grin, laughter climbing up his throat, to wink at him, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. The minx. T’Challa’s breath catches on the exhale and he can see the moment Erik aligns with the sudden but expected shift in energy; eyes hooded as he takes in all of T’Challa, velvety and supple on the wide chaise just outside their dressing room. He closes the short distance between them, dropping the towel and reveling in the way T’Challa’s eyes drag over him, possessive and hungry. T’Challa sits back, knowing his lover well, ready for him always, gazing up as Erik climbs into his lap. His fingers fall neatly into the bruises they left on Erik’s lean hips only the night before. They collide, a maelstrom that's all heat and play; loud and unabashed. 

 

"Tight as fuck..." T’Challa whispers, heated and overwhelmed, against his lips.

 

Later, Okoye will roll her eyes as T’Challa adjusts his collar in an attempt to cover the evidence of Erik's decadent passion. It doesn't work. At his side, as they head to the dinner for which they are now late, Erik doesn't even try to cover up; he decided a snug, navy pullover perfectly complimented his necklace of love bites. 

This is far from the first or last time they would scandalize the court. 

 

T’Challa is still smiling, chest fluttering with swell after swell of emotion, when he comes out of his thoughts. He came in here to find a pair of shoes, to get ready for his day, yet there he stood, smiling lopsided and stupid at Erik's boots, at the assortment of pristine sneakers sitting on a shelf. Erik’s shoes next to his shoes, on his shelf, in his apartment. His Erik.

His eyes flutter shut as Erik winds his arms around his middle, presses his clean warmth into his back; skin still slightly damp from his shower. T’Challa covers Erik's hands with his own, biting back a smile. Erik's lips quirk against his skin as he trails quick, playful nips from T’Challa’s shoulder up to his ear. He hums, amused, and T’Challa’s smile splits into a grin. Taking T’Challa’s lobe between his teeth, he whispers silkily,

"Mhmm...wack."

Some days he demonstrated the uncanniest ability to know where T’Challa’s thoughts lay, no matter how abstract. T’Challa’s head falls back as he snorts, Erik's face buried in his neck; warm with laughter. 

"You’re obnoxious...", he says fondly. There's another hum and another quick nip, deeper than those before.

“At least I’m not wack...”

**Author's Note:**

> T’Challa might wake up one day and find his sandals missing.
> 
>  
> 
> I have a cold and this might be the product of medication and delirium. I was steeping ginger tea when I remembered that WACK video and it just went from there.


End file.
